“I’ll have another story for you when I return,” he said before he kissed her nose. Stron always said and did this just before he left; their little rite. Always the same way and ever, his promise was good. Rina was routinely astonished that he could still take her words with that little gesture. Even after eleven years he could, not always but often enough to surprise. She watched him walk down the alley from their tiny apartment in the poor quarter of Gaudiguch and thought back to last night’s stories. Stron and Rina were ever telling stories. Fables that charge the heart, bitter tragedies that warn and cut, and sweeping romances have all been spun within this tiny apartment and never will be shared beyond its shabby walls.

An unspoken trust between Rina and Stron came when they first sat to weave a story together. They, both great storytellers, said, without words, that their tales should never be shared with any other. “These are ours and make what you and I have, special,” Stron’s eyes said at the conclusion of their first spoken tale. Rina’s accenting reply was and would be obvious only to Stron, the kind of slight movement that’s only shared between lovers, the kind of language that allows the two, a secret, unbreakable channel.

And so, the stories never wander beyond these shabby walls. Plucked from aether, their tales travel the breadth of the Basin and their inadequate knowledge of history, geography, anything real, means they’ve recreated the Basin ten times over with fresh histories and new factions. They tire of it. They’re fatigued with spinning a world when all they care about are the characters and deeds. So, their most coveted stories are those with a foothold in the real. Those tales which start grounded, add spice through the sheer possibility that they could be true. They ever seek such a starting for their nightly rite.

Stron looked, overlong, into her eyes before he walked towards the main street and thanked, again, his city for its soot which gives him a job. Each day must have a morning before a night and a parting before a reunion; work before play. Stron washes walls. He jokes regularly about having white alabaster walls in a city where there’s more smoke than air.

Rina donned her ashcloak, a garment intended to keep soot and cinders from ruining one’s clothes, and departed for her work in the city’s library. She has quite a walk from her door but it’s usually pleasant and gives her time to reflect on last night’s story. At the bustling main street, alive with the morning errands of a hundred citizens, she noticed a charge in the air. An excited dread filled the faces of those trusted enough to hear the city’s aether. Something was wrong. A brief moment’s thought was given to how pleased Stron will be to have a good start to tonight’s tale if she can learn of this current trouble.  She hurried down her path, letting her fertile imagination mould some story of daring do, distracting herself from this crisis. So much so that she nearly missed him.

Denoth rode fast around the corner into the plaza before the southeast gate. He reigned in his wyvern, halting her with firm pressure on her flanks. He quickly surveyed the area, this prick of excitement beginning to funnel adrenaline into his blood. He spied just one creature, a seemingly lost woman in a threadbare ashcloak. Auburn hair spilled out from around her raised hood, the ends stained black from soot.

She looked up just in time to see Denoth peering at her, a puzzled expression on his handsome face. “What is he doing here?” she thought for a moment, annoyed that one of the royalty of Gaudiguch, one of their star-sons would invade this street without fanfare and warning, denying the common folk chance to gather and hoot.

The seriousness of Denoth’s expression struck her instantly and she looked around, finding the plaza empty but for he and her, a buzz of fear crept into her mind. “Someone slipped passed the gate, have you seen anything in this area, ma’am?” Denoth said with authority.

“N-No, nothing warranting you, m’lord,” she stammered out and spent the next few seconds chastising herself for her fumbled utterance. Then a thrill sparked in her mind. “Stron, I’ll have a great beginning for you!”

“Keep vigilant, ma’am. We think it an agent Celest. Watch for intruders, report it. That would be appreciated,” Denoth said in clipped, brief tone, delivering her back to reality as he searched the area.

Rina nodded her understanding but kept her eyes only on Denoth.

Denoth sighed. This would be another hero worshiper. These incidences have increased as he’s gained rank within the Pyromancers and the city. It was novel when it began, now only a nuisance and forces him to travel by flight least he be gawked at and bothered within his own city.

“Ma’am, you should leave the area, it’s not safe,” Denoth commanded. She hesitated but eventually obeyed.

As she walked away, Rina absorbed as much detail as she could for a later retelling which is why she noticed the aquamancer in the store front, raising up his staff. She shouted and pointed, the wyvern responded faster than the pyromancer for the creature only had to hear a cry of danger, the beast didn’t have to understand the garbled shout, so as Denoth spent precious seconds deciphering Rina’s cry, the wyvern leapt them clear of the lance of imbued water. It drilled the air wide of its mark and bore straight through an abandoned wagon full of caged chickens. Wet plumage, carcasses and splintered wood exploded out of the back of the wagon, painting the alabaster wall beyond with debris and blood.

The fight was joined and both combatants gave themselves over to their intense training. Instinct and reflexes honed from years spent bruised and injured directed their deadly arts and in those, directed their chosen elements. Seething flame impacted arctic waters as the two accomplished mages did battle. They fought to control the elemental essence of the area but this was home turf for Denoth and his will would be done. The aquamancer, seeing the tide of battle shifting, called the sky to deliver his element. An oppressive dampness instantly smothered the area followed, a fraction later, by a deluge from above. A waterfall with no beginning formed above the plaza and pounded the area. The streets were swamped then flooded. Dead vermin floated to the surface. A black tinge tinted the water as the walls and streets were washed clean. The torrent swept into nearby dwellings and shops, and after the waves hit the back walls, the occupants were swept back out. Utter chaos reigned in this small section of the City of Freedom.

Stunned citizens were thrown about by the churning vortex of water as the aquamancer summoned a whirlpool around him. Debris, drowned citizens, livestock meant for sale, and one pissed off pyromancer spun in a dizzying circle around the Celest intruder.

Rina clung to a half-submerged wagon, heavy enough to not float away. She was beside herself. Her mind flip-flopped between ecstatic joy over the story she’d discovered and worry that too much would be destroyed in this attack. She wasn’t worried about herself until she saw her dead fellow citizens floating in the plaza. Then, she allowed herself fear. “Oh, but Stron, I’ll have that beginning we always wanted,” she thought, pleading with fate to allow her to escape this calamity and tell her story.

The pyromancer, sensing defeat, called upon his greatest of magics. He swore, loud, his incantation, shouting it at the aquamancer like an edict for the damned. Denoth wrestled elemental control for the area once more and called down an inferno. Flame licked, unsupported in the air. Ephemeral wisps of heat. A shock of scorched air blossomed out from around Denoth, forming vestige creatures of heat and hideous intent. Water was instantly vaporized, turning this section of Gaudiguch into a pressure cooker and still the heat increased. These vestige creatures of flame, disciples of Denoth, performed his bidding and marched with meticulous speed upon the Celest intruder, uncaring of the contents of their path.

Rina realized with resignation that as this tale became more worthy of telling, it became less likely to ever be told by her. “Stron, my Love, I have it but I can’t give it to you. I can’t share this one with you,” she thought. Then her threshold for pain was breached. As a creature of flame moved through her, her lower, submerged, half was boiled and what of her was above the surface was scorched black. The roar of the flame stole her cry then passed on towards its ultimate goal, leaving a wrecked, smoldering body in its wake.

Her mind delivered her from this moment of torture and pain, shutting out a world that had abandoned her. It fabricated, as it had learned to do so well, another story to hang her senses on. Denoth had quickly won. Gaudiguch was safe. She was on her way home with the precious gift of a great beginning.

The subconscious works as fast as a thought but she had less than that to live. Her conjured fantasy never made it home. Her mind ceased its work. Stark, black nothing replaced her imaginings as flame in the other reality finally consumed her. She was given her ending for the sake of a beginning.